


Legacy

by Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee/pseuds/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee
Summary: For Oliver Queen, several things changed after Deathstroke attacked Starling City. For Slade Wilson, everything did. The Mirakuru does not let go easy. Locked away in the prison on Lian Yu, he struggles to overcome it and survive the withdrawal. And the arrival of a suspicious figure seems to foreshadow a dangerous plan of Director Waller's. Surrounded by hostile company, Slade has no way of knowing who to believe. Old memories come back to reality, his past refuses to stay buried.Maybe Slade could never really escape Deathstroke.





	1. I Became Insane

_“I became insane, with long periods of horrible sanity.”_

_-Edgar Allen Poe_

 

It was the periods of clarity that were the worst parts. They had started soon after the last time he had seen Oliver, attacked him and his sister, and subsequently ended up in the same grey cell. Three days later, the horrifying dreams had started. They weren’t really dreams, per se, often, he wasn’t even asleep when he saw the mangled bodies with familiar faces. Truth and his own vivid imagination mingled as the last vestiges of the Mirakuru fought against his consciousness.

And as they were not dreams, he had no way to escape from them. No matter how little sleep he deprived himself of, they still came, twisted replicas of people he knew, broken bodies of people he had never wanted to hurt. And when they left, when whatever sanity he had finally fought its way through, he was left alone to ponder what was truth and what was fiction. Had he killed those people? Now more than ever, his sense of reality was weak, and he had no idea what day, month, or even year it was. He still dreamed of killing the kid, but those dreams that had once been more a fantasy now woke him with a confused feeling of dread. Too many nights, he awoke, feeling the sticky sensation of blood on his hands, even smelling the rusty scent. Sometimes, it was so thick he felt as though he couldn’t breathe around the stench.

It was in that twisted world that Slade Wilson was trapped as the cure struggled to overcome and flush out the serum still working through his veins. The Mirakuru didn’t want to leave, and the experience was nothing short of excruciating. Sometimes, it felt as though it was ripping through his body like acid flowing through his veins. It burned, and he would surge awake in a haze of pain so strong, he couldn’t even see.

Sometimes, it would last for hours, and Slade would struggle, often doing even more damage to his body as he thrashed about, slamming into the cement walls. When it finally faded to a manageable throb, exhaustion forced him to collapse to the floor, not even making it to the rough cot. He laid on the cold stone, ragged breaths slow. The guards had learned to ignore him after the first time it had happened, and Slade was left alone until the next meal necessary to keep him alive, served without anything that could be turned into a weapon. Slowly, day after day, agony filled hour after hour, Slade’s body drove out the serum, but as he became weaker, his mind clearer, reality became harder to deal with, and his body ached for the same thing it was driving away. It fought against the cure, and the pain became even worse. Twice, he passed out while standing, awaking sometime later, the second time, with blood seeping from his head, where he had hit it against the floor.

The blindness became more common as well, never permanent, but long periods were everything was dark. It still started him. He had lost one eye, he wasn’t eager to lose the other. With the struggle came erratic mood swings, ones even Slade couldn’t control. Burning anger followed by complete despair, depression turned into mania. The Mirakuru had always heightened whatever he felt, but now, as it made its last stand, it acted unpredictably.

It was in one of these fits of mania and anger that Slade snapped, and the incident that followed was disastrous. Instead of simply delivering a meal through the small entrance point as usual, Slade heard the rattle of the lock as the man opened the door. Slade turned slowly to watch him, trying to ignore the irrational feelings inside of him. The guard wouldn’t have looked out of place on a SWAT team in the way he was dressed. He hovered in the doorway, and Slade sensed his nervousness even without seeing his face.

“Turn around and put your hands on your head,” the guard instructed him. It was hard enough to push down the urge to charge the man straight off, and Slade almost missed the order, distracted as he was with the war going on inside of him. The guard seemed to take being ignored the same as being resisted, and he swung his baton in a small threatening gesture, seeming to think it was more threatening than it actually was. “I said; turn around.” He walked towards Slade, and the Australian felt something snap inside of him. He launched himself on the man before he could even react.

The baton clattered to the floor as Slade twisted it out of his grasp, kicking the man in the knee and sending him to the cold cement. The guard reached out for the weapon, and Slade kicked it out of his reach. The guard scrambled upward, but Slade was prepared, bringing his knee into the man’s jaw and sending the helmet clattering across the floor. The man spat out blood, shouting out for help. Slade drew the walkie talkie from his belt, driving the antenna into the guard’s neck with suck force that blood splattered under the pressure.

Running footsteps came from beyond the cell door as three more guards rushed into the small space, crowding Slade, all wielding batons. They attacked him all at once, and Slade, collecting the dead guard’s fallen weapon, fought back with a sheer fury that startled them back for a brief second. He felt the blows falling on his body, but he ignored them. He attacked them viciously, bringing one guard to his knees and slamming his helmeted head into the stone wall with enough force that he dropped. Distantly, through the fog that had settled over his mind, Slade heard the guards shout for more backup. He slammed the attacker in front of him against the wall, but someone came from behind, arms going over his and locking behind his back. He struggled against the hold and felt the offender’s grip slipping, unable to keep it.

“I can’t hold him!” Something slammed into his diaphragm, and Slade twisted, sending the guard holding onto him over his shoulder into the other attacker. At some point, the baton had been knocked from his hand, and he had no idea where it had fallen. He was undoubtedly bleeding from several places, but he didn’t feel the pain.

And suddenly, the anger, the burning violence, it was gone, and Slade froze quite abruptly. His vision cleared, and he stared, unfeeling at the jumble of bodies. Three were unmoving, two were struggling to their feet. His hands dropped down to his side. The guards rushed him, and this time, Slade didn’t fight back. He was kicked hard in the back of the knee, and he slowly sunk down, one of the guards locking him down as effectively as the man could, the blows still falling. Something sharp bit into the side of his neck, the second guard depressed the plunger on the syringe, sending the sedative rushing into Slade’s body. The attack didn’t stop, even when Slade collapsed, body giving into the drug. The room swum, fading in and out of focus, and eventually, it all went dark.

 

**0              0              0              0**

 

Security became even tighter after that, if such a thing was possible. Every meal was delivered by a pair of guards, one would stand some feet back, gun trained on Slade as the other pushed the tray in. During this time, it was demanded Slade stand by the far wall, back to them. Slade also stopped eating. He started avoiding the meals after the first one following his attack on the guards. They had started sedating all the food and he couldn’t accept the idea of spending all his time in an unconscious state, not knowing what might happen to him during that time. And so, he simply disposed of it, pouring it out (the food was always some sort of liquid) when the guards had left.

But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue such tactics. Estimating from how many meals had occurred since then, and drawing from the idea that ARGUS wouldn’t waste more money then necessary on its prisoners, Slade deducted three days had passed. Meals came twice a day, small enough to keep Slade alive but not healthy. At least, they had yet to drug the water. He had been wary of it, but common sense convinced him to risk it. Water was vital, and he had not felt the effects of any drug after it. It had tasted fine, as well, water was harder to drug then food. His body was weaker from the Mirakuru, and the lack of nourishment weakened his further. He would die if he tried to avoid food, and Slade knew that very well. He couldn’t bring himself to stay still, however, moving around the small cell constantly, his mind always working.

He had received several injuries from the scuffle. His knee hurt, it was an old injury, acting up now the healing serum was almost gone. His face had been battered unmercifully and the rest of his body was heavily bruised. Once, he wondered how long the guards had kept hitting him after he lost consciousness. He didn’t blame them, he had murdered at least two of them, maybe even three. It didn’t bother him as much as it should have. He had killed before. He had killed men with families before. It was just another testimony to how fucked up he had really become.

He had heard once, that hell was something each person carried with them, not a place. But in that cell, he wanted to disagree, because this was a type of hell, he had never experienced before. The waking dreams were almost all obsolete now, the hallucinations even rarer. But his dreams were still disturbing. The familiar faces that might have once drawn comfort were demonic, twisted apparitions that snapped Slade awake, reminding him that trust was dangerous.

This was hell, because he had no control. No control over his life, and sometimes, no control over himself. The long hours stretched by, and Slade paced, alone, silent. He had no idea how long it had been since he had spoken consciously. He shouted out in his dreams, he awoke cursing some flicker of a vision that still remained, but he never spoke to the guards, never gave them a reason to think he might be trying to attack.

The mood swings were fractionally better, but when they did occur, they occurred with a passion. On the last one, he had trashed the cell in his fury, leaving his knuckles bloody from pounding the wall, the skin all but scraped away. He had broken the cot and shredded the blanket, fortunately, the other couple appliances in his cell had held up to his attack.

He knew there were other prisoners there now. Who they were, he didn’t know, they weren’t always quiet. He heard their voices once and again, most likely while doors were open. But he had little interest in them or why they were there. Truthfully, he had little interest in anything. He never saw them, he never wanted to, but he knew they were there. When he did hear the muffled noises of their voices, he realized whatever cells they were in were close, close enough for them to argue, talk, or whatever it was those words they exchanged were. It was only logical that he was the one set in a solitary cell. In all honesty, he didn’t particularly care.

The sound of guards approaching caused his eye to open, turning to watch as they approached. Wordlessly, he stood, back facing them and listened to the noise of the small door being opened the tray being pushed through. He waited until he heard the footsteps receding. Turning, he moved to collect the tray, barely glancing at the food before he dumped it out. It was so little, it was barely much of a waste. Even if he had been eating, it was likely he still would die of malnourishment in this place, avoiding it all together just shortened the time.

He drained the glass, setting the tray back on the shelf by the small door and moving away again, trying to find something to distract him from what his mind longed to dredge up. Eventually, hours later, he fell into an uneasy sleep, sitting on the floor, head leaning back against the wall.

**0              0              0              0**

It was the wrong time to be a meal. He sensed it, even if he didn’t even know the time, warily, Slade stood, listening to the footsteps draw closer. There were three, he realized, and one of them was not the heavy trod of boots. He faced the exit as the door beyond the cell opened, and two ARGUS guards stepped through. They continued to the cell, one of them unlocked, giving Slade a familiar command.

“Turn around, hands on your head!” The order was spoken with a snap. They expected him to make some sort of attack. No one had tried to enter his cell ever since the incident some days ago.

He complied. One of the men fastened his wrists together with cuffs behind his back, searched him for any sort of makeshift weapon, then turned him around. Marching him to the plastic folding chair inside the cell bars, it hadn’t been there previously. The cuffs were in turn fastened to the chair, and Slade flexed his fingers experimentally. He could get out of it, if he situation called for it, but now, he didn’t see much meaning. With the guard standing in front of him, his vision was blocked, and temporarily, Slade forgot about the third set of footsteps.

It wasn’t until the man stepped away, out of the cell and closing the door that he saw the third person. She sat in a chair duplicate of the one they had put Slade in, except she was not restrained in way, nor was she dressed in the ragged grey prison attire. She wore a white blouse, tucked into black pants, legs crossed, a notebook balanced on her thigh. Her dark brown eyes studied him with an expression that was neither pity nor despise nor fear but something else entirely. It was a critical look, taking details with an almost regimented focus. Her dark hair was braided, those in turn wrapped around the back of her head, two loose strands falling on either side of her heart shaped face. Her skin was a deep olive shade, unmarred and unmarked by any visible tattoos. It was difficult for Slade to guess her exact age. She didn’t appear particularly young, but still some years younger than himself, though maybe close. Her appearance, altogether, was professional, elegant and simple.

The guards hesitated behind her, and the woman half turned, making a discreet gesture and they retreated. They would stay close enough to intervene, Slade knew, but they moved out of earshot of casual conversation. His brow furrowed, not trusting the situation at all. He didn’t speak, staring at her, daring her to start conversation. If he could make her uneasy, so much the better, Slade had no desire to see anyone. The kid had set up this prison with the help of ARGUS, and Amanda Waller always had her own plans, her own motives, ones she rarely allowed anyone else to know about. Slade wasn’t eager to become part of her newest lightbulb.

“Mr. Wilson,” her voice was faintly tainted by an unusual inflection, but the accent itself sounded American enough. “My name is Dr. Nevera Fawn.”


	2. To Live is to Suffer

_“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

He knew now his distrust had not been unfounded. It came back with a passion, seeping into his expression. He knew she saw it, because she paused, lips pursing fractionally. “Whether or not you want me to be here isn’t my concern, Mr. Wilson, I am here for you own sake.” She didn’t have the same cautious fear as the guards did around him, and she met his gaze without flinching or looking away, her expression cool, refusing to be cowed. She was also fuzzy; Slade’s vision was threatening to go into another period of blindness. He resisted the urge to squint.

Slade opened his mouth, intending to reply, but the time spent in silence had worn down on his voice, and the first words were so rough and hoarse he was unable to get them out and he coughed instead. The woman tipped her head, watching him intently and Slade felt a prickle of irritation. She drew a small penlight out of her pocket, leaning forward fractionally.

“I am going to shine this over your eye,” she passed the beam of light in and out of his line of sight several times. She clicked it off, returning it to her pocket and leaning back. Slade blinked away the residue spots swimming in front of his eye. “After being under the Mirakuru’s influence for so long, your body has developed something close to a dependency on it,” she glanced down at her notes only once, before making eye contact again. “By definition, that dependency could be called an addiction.” He didn’t need to be told any of this, and he didn’t want to sit and listen to it. “As this is a unique situation, we have no way of knowing exactly what secondary responses will occur. From the reports sent in, it can be assumed you have already gone through some very severe side effects, can you describe them?”

“What does Waller want?” his voice was still hoarse from lack of use, scratching at his throat roughly. Before she could reply, thinking that she would merely deflect the question, Slade added. “If you’re here, you’re working for her.”

“My responsibility is to oversee your withdrawal and recovery,” she replied calmly.

“Bullshit,” Slade growled. Dr. Fawn crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat.

“You don’t believe your mental health would be any concern of ARGUS?” She asked.

“Does this look like a psychiatric clinic?” Slade questioned sardonically.

“No,” Dr. Fawn’s response came immediately, his words not even causing her to hesitate. “However, there are a finite number of guards at ARGUS’s disposal.” She drew a pen out of her pocket, clicking it open. “Refusing treatment will only further the damage to your own mind and body,” she continued. “I said before, the side effects are still undeterminable, and to make sure there is no lasting impairment, I suggest you work with me. Director Waller assigned me believing you were capable of making a full recovery both mentally and physically.”

“So she can utilize me?” Slade pressed. He wasn’t unfamiliar with either ARGUS or Amanda Waller. If he was well enough to shoot a gun, he suspected Waller would exploit that immediately. Her habit of sending convicts on suicide missions had been going on for some years; though previously, she had been forced to be more discreet.

“The Director may have her own motives,” Dr. Fawn replied. “Whatever they are. But it isn’t as if this wouldn’t benefit you as well. Isolation never aids recovery. In your instance, you were reported to have delusions while under the Mirakuru’s influence. Constant seclusion in a small location may increase that problem and promote hallucinations.” She paused. “As much as I’m sure you refuse to admit it, humans are not solitary animals, we require connections and company.”

The anger he felt at her words wasn’t prompted by the Mirakuru, this was genuine, and his dislike for the woman increased. As she finished speaking, she watched him expectantly but Slade didn’t reply, sitting still and glaring straight at her. He wasn’t convinced, and he was not about to talk his heart out to a stranger. He thought he heard Dr. Fawn sigh.

“I’ll assume that means you are not willing have honest discussion,” she said. She wrote something in the notebook that Slade couldn’t see. It bothered him fractionally. Typically, he had no regard for other’s opinions, but this was different, she wasn’t just judging him as a usual person, she was studying him. He didn’t like it. “Instead, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” She glanced up at his face, as if looking for acceptance. “Do you know where you are?”

“In a cell.” He didn’t know where the question was coming from, he assumed she had already spoken in depth to those who had actual control over the situation. She knew more than he did. His best guess was that this was some sort of test, she already knew the answers she wanted him to say. She didn’t respond to his sarcasm, merely making another note in her book and continuing her questions.

“Have you had any severe hallucinations recently?” Dr. Fawn continued.

“No,” Slade replied. She set the pen down, looking up at him again.

“I’m asking you to be honest in all your answers, Mr. Wilson,” she said. When Slade didn’t reply, she merely moved on, not dwelling on the question. “When you attacked the guard who came into your cell, where you aware of who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Your attitude has not been consistently aggressive,” Dr. Fawn stated. “Logically it seems the episodes in which you do act violently towards other people or simply in general-” her eyes trailed over some of the destruction in the cell. “Were prompted by the Mirakuru. Would you agree?”  Slade declined to answer. His shoulders were already getting stiff from the awkward position. “Do you realize the full risk of what you’re going through?” Dr. Fawn asked abruptly. 

“I should, I have a front-row seat,” Slade replied sarcastically. She was frustrated by his short answers, Slade could tell. Her eyes trailed over him, brows lowered fractionally in response to his stuborn nature.

“The guards reported all inmates were given meals twice a day, is that correct?” the question seemed so out of place Slade took a moment to respond, unsure of what direction her line of questioning was headed for.

“Yes.” He said shortly. Dr. Fawn made another private note before closing the book.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson,” she stood. “I won’t waste any more of it.” She partly turned, calling out for the guards’ attention before facing him again. “I will be seeing you again, hopefully, you’ll be a little more honest in our future talks. As I said, this is for your own good.” Slade held her gaze.

“How many times have you told that lie?” he asked. He saw the small flash of resignation on the woman’s features. The guards returned then, and she nodded in response to their inquiries. They entered the cell, undoing Slade’s restraints, but not allowing him to stand. During the entire process, Dr. Fawn stood still, watching Slade as though she was looking for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t know if she saw it. When the guards withdrew, and Slade straightened after the cell door clanged shut. The group left Slade alone again, and he was relieved at the solitary peace.

**0              0              0              0**

The rest of the day passed with a surprising lack of difficulties. There was no hallucinations, no blind spells. Instead, he spent hours in steady clarity. The night was the same way, and it was longest he had ever gone without the Mirakuru withdrawal having any effects.

The next morning, the guards arrived with the usual meal. They went through the familiar routine, Slade stood with his back to them, one kept a weapon trained at him, the other passed the tray into the cell. They backed up, retreating again and Slade dropped his hands, turning again. He waited until the door closed after them before stepping across to collect the tray.

Unexpectedly, the door opened again, and Slade looked up, posture stiffening, and set the tray aside, expecting trouble. He wasn’t far from the mark. Dr. Fawn walked towards him and judging from the two, confused guards trailing behind her, Slade wasn’t the only one surprised by her appearance. She paused momentarily, speaking to the guards, and obviously getting them to agree with whatever she was saying. They stepped back, and Dr. Fawn continued on her way, unbothered, Slade watched her, feeling almost cornered by her abrupt, unannounced appearance. She seated herself on the chair on the other side of the bars, Slade remained standing, arms crossing over his chest. The height difference didn’t seem to bother her at all, she merely looked up with a calm expression.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilson,” she said. “Would you care to sit?” She wanted him to relax, she wanted him to _trust_ her. That was a mission doomed to failure. He remained standing. She looked down at her notes, almost seeming to shake her head. “I’ll assume that’s a no.”

“What do you want?” Slade asked bluntly.

“I’ve told you, if you don’t believe me, there’s not much else I can say, is there?” She asked. “There are no sedatives in your meal, I spoke to the guards and it will remain the same for the future.” Slade was surprised. “It’s fairly obvious you’ve been denying yourself food for several days now, and I assumed you weren’t the type of man to seek a quicker death.”

“Do you expect gratitude?” Slade bit out in reply, watching her expression. She lifted her head fractionally.

“No,” she said flatly. “Actually, I expected you to believe I had planned the entire thing several weeks ago as an attempt to gain your confidence.” Slade didn’t have a response for that, taken aback by the open honesty, and how close the truth she was. “I am curious, with your reported lack of resistance to the guards -excluding times in which you were under the Mirakuru’s influence- what makes you so hostile to my help?”

“The guards don’t pretend to be anything they’re not,” Slade replied. The guards were a constant threat, and Slade knew exactly what they were likely to do, and how.

“According to your records, you tricked your way into the Australian Navy when you were sixteen,” Dr. Fawn said, seeming to have not heard him. “There are very little details on your childhood, however that detail alone suggests it wasn’t pleasant.” The only reply Slade had was very sarcastic, and Dr. Fawn seemed to sense that, as she continued immediately. “That would explain where your trust issues began. However, I am also curious if you had some poor interaction with a psychologist or doctor as well.”

Slade’s jaw tightened a little, the line of questioning making his patience tick. Dr. Fawn looked up from her notes, studying him for a second before seamlessly transitioning into a different topic, shuffling forward a few pages.

“Do you know where we are?” It was back to the professional, bullet point questions that he suspected she had written out or been given long before coming here.

“You asked before,” Slade pointed out shortly. The glance he got was reproving.

“And it’s a good sign you remember that, however, I still ask you answer the question,” Dr. Fawn replied.

“Lian Yu, an island in the North China sea previously occupied by Japanese soldiers who were stranded here during the Second World War,” Slade listed, bored. She made a note. Slade, even standing as he was, still couldn’t read the paper. It annoyed him.

“Since we last spoke, have you had any incidences you believe were the works of the serum?” she asked.

“No.” He said shortly. It was honest, however, and she seemed to accept that.

“In your recent hallucinations, have there been any recurring themes you believe might suggest something?” She rephrased the statement after several long moments. “It’s very likely your subconscious bases your hallucinations off of specific thoughts or memories. If there is there is something specific, it might suggest a certain memory is being targeted.”

“How long until you give this up?” Slade asked abruptly. Dr. Fawn set her pen directly in the crease of her book, her palms folding together, listening as he spoke. “Because I believe I’ve made it clear I have no desire to speak to you, or to comply with whatever plan Waller has thought up.”

“You refuse to believe I’m here to help,” Dr. Fawn said. “But I have no hidden agenda, no secret orders from Director Waller. It’s part of my profession to help people. And isolation has severely threatened your ability to recover.”

“Which shouldn’t be a concern,” Slade snarled abruptly. “Especially not to Waller.” She sat back, crossing her legs.

“You don’t want to accept any support because you think you deserve whatever the Mirakuru and its withdrawal does to you,” Dr. Fawn stated bluntly. “You’d never intentionally take your own life, as that’s simply the easy way out. You don’t believe in giving up. But you also have no aversion to allowing the Mirakuru to kill you.” She ignored his glares. “It’s already torn apart your life. You’re in pain, you’re alone, whether or not you admit it to yourself, you want to get out that pain.”

“Life’s pain,” Slade snapped in response. “Everyone deals with it. I’m not going to wallow in self-pity over mine. The withdrawal may kill me, but I’d prefer that death over being alive and stupid enough to believe your obvious lies.” She didn’t reply, whether simply giving up on the argument or taken aback, he couldn’t tell. She closed her book, slid her pen into her pocket and stood, facing him.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson.” Dr. Fawn turned and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing a post-Mirakuru Slade is very difficult.


	3. I Knew Nothing But Shadows

_“I knew nothing but shadows and I thought them to be real.”_

_-Oscar Wilde_

He trusted what she had said about the food. Maybe it was foolish, idiotic, but he was able to reason it enough to please even his deepest paranoia. She wanted him to trust her, and lying about drugged food would be a misstep that Slade doubted she would take. It was still a risk, but he took it, and didn’t simply dump out the food.

Dr. Fawn had not been lying. Slade was conscious for the rest of the day, left in solitude to pace the cement floor, left alone with his thoughts. He had undergone no withdrawal effects for over a day, now, and the next hours were just as clear.

Near the middle of the day, there was a commotion outside the door past the bars of Slade’s cell. He came to his feet, pacing to the bars but unable to see out of the room. He could hear shouted threats and noise of struggle. Listening to way it faded, moving away, Slade relaxed again. It was another prisoner, that was obvious, and such things were of no interest to him. Their enthusiasm would die down after several, when they finally realized their threats and frantic plans were useless. It was a cycle Slade has listened to many times.

He had never wondered who else was trapped in that underground prison. It didn’t matter, truthfully. And Slade couldn’t bring himself to care. The days of planning vengeful escapes were long gone. The hours itched by, later the guards arrived with the second and last meal of the day. They were still wary around Slade, determined to not make the same mistake they did previously. Slade had learned it was better if he made no eye contact or even glanced in their direction. Even that, apparently, seemed threatening. Then again, he didn’t have the friendliest countenance.

It was difficult to tell exactly when the sunset, and nightfall creeped in. The only time reference Slade had was the meals, after all. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had seen sunlight. The familiar itch that set in after weeks? Months? Of being trapped underground had crept in sometime ago, leaving Slade restless. He denied himself sleep or even lying down until after the second meal came in, knowing that some sort of regimented schedule was still important, and it helped keep him partly sane. As much as it could, of course.

When he finally did settle back, eyes closing, sleep evaded him for sometime, the lack of activity doing little to wear down his energy and leaving him wide awake. Even so, he remained still and relaxed. In ASIS, and before that, in the Navy, he had learned the importance of getting sleep whenever possible, and trained himself to be able to rest anywhere. If he could sleep in a damaged, rusty, old, bucket of a plane with Wintergreen flying, he must be able to sleep anywhere.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint noise, and Slade’s eye snapped open. Or not.

**0              0              0              0**

The empty sky stretched above him, starless and dark as Slade walked noiselessly through the forest, the grass swept aside with every step. He listened intently to the night around him, hearing the faint sounds of nature, the soft croak of insects and occasional hoot of an owl. The wind flirted with the leaves, rustling them softly in the darkness.

Slade walked on cautiously, alert to everything around him. He knew this island, deep in his bones he knew every step and detail, and he knew he’d never forget it. But as familiar as he was with the island, he was still wary, because he didn’t know what might be lurking in its shadows. As he walked, he became aware of an unnatural noise, standing out against the quiet night. He wasn’t aware of when it became obvious, but soon, he identified it as shouting. He turned, looking at the group standing just a few feet away, faces angry, brandishing fists. A slim hand rested on his shoulder, and an achingly familiar, musical voice whispered down to him softly.

“Go for a walk, Slade, take Sheila, alright?” he didn’t want to go. He should stay, prevent what he _knew_ was about to happen. But gently, the hands steered him away, and Slade was forced to take a small step.

The forest was burning around him. The acrid fumes stung his lungs, making the air thick with smoke. He turned in circles, searching for the building he knew had to be just a few feet away, but there was nothing. Distantly, he heard sobbing, and he ran. He ran as fast as he could, ducking under branches, nearly tripping over roots, until he stumbled into the small clearing. It was a girl crying, her face pressed into the dead woman’s chest, her hands gripping the body’s shoulders.

“Come back!” the broken words slipped out between sobs, muffled against the material of the shirt. “Please come back!” she lifted her head, blood was streaked on her cheek, but the girl didn’t notice, she didn’t care. “Do something!” Slade thought the words were directed at him, the green eyes seemed to stare right at him. But they weren’t.

He looked down at the man lying on the ground at his feet, bound tightly. He looked at his sister with a vacancy at odds with the sheer anguish painted across his features. It was as though he was unable to process his proceedings, as if his mind had suddenly just given up trying to register what was going on.

“She’s gone,” it was an affirmation or realization or both. “I-I can’t-”

“ _NO_!” her voice shattered with distress. “We need to get her to the hospital! She’s going to be fine!” the woman’s eyes stared sightlessly above her, blonde hair spread out on the forest floor. “Mom!” it was half a wail, half a whisper, and the girl sunk down, still holding onto her dead mother. The man was unable to move. From his expression alone his thoughts were obvious; he would have given anything to be the one who had died. He would have given everything as long as his mother and sister survived. He had failed her, and for that, he’d never forgive himself. “She’ll get better.” The words were almost indistinguishable, even as Slade dropped down next to the girl. She had to be right, something could be down.

But there was no pulse under the cold skin of her wrist. There was no life in those sightless eyes. There was no excuse for the blood forming a puddle around her. He heard sirens, and turned away from the dead woman, looking for the vehicles. They needed an ambulance, if one came, there was still a chance. It was a hopeless, foolish mantra that played over and over again in his skull.

He looked down at the woman again, and recoiled. Black hair replaced the blonde. Her skin was burnt so horrifically half of her face was unrecognizable. The only similarity between the one who had laid there previously, and the one now, was the hole in her chest. The thick, red blood that oozed from it. And his hand still grasped the hilt of the sword.

The paramedics rushed by him, and Slade barely noticed as they collected the dead woman’s body, unable to peel the girl off of her mother. Police milled around the scene, helping the man who had been restrained to stand, trying to get him to rest but unable to stop him going for his sister, pulling her away from the corpse.

She fought him, her fists pounding into his body as she struggled to go after the stretcher bearing its precious cargo. But he didn’t let go, even when the burns from the ropes bled through his shirt, aggravated by the assault. Eventually, she went limp, hiding her face and sobbing, hugging the only family she had left. He let her cry, holding onto her wordlessly, staring after the ambulance that drove away. His eyes reflected his dead mother’s, with the same lack of life or energy. His face full of unspoken agony.

The police searched the scene, yet they didn’t recover the bodies. They left Shado’s, with the side of her head caked in blood. They left Joe, his throat sliced open. They left the burned woman. Billy, his brain ruptured by Slade’s own blade. Everywhere he looked, there was a new body. Every face familiar. Every death preventable. The flames spread, consuming everything in their path, and yet, the people seemed oblivious. The ambulance, the police, the cruisers all burned away. Dread settled into his chest, a heavy weight as he realized there was no possible escape from the fire. He turned, intending to reach the man and his sister, but when his gaze found them, fire was already climbing their bodies. They had tried to run, but the flames had caught up. They consumed the form of the man, slipping through the cracks in his guard to the girl who he had tried to protect. Someone was screaming, but Slade no longer knew who.

The fire died away, and abruptly, Slade was alone, left in the burnt, charred remains of a forest,

 

Slade snapped into wakefulness, coming to his feet at once. He was covered in cold sweat, his limbs shaking reflexively. He stumbled across the cell, nearly falling, reality still escaping his grasp. He lashed out at the nearest thing. When his fist connected with something solid, he continued his attack. It wasn’t until exhaustion forced him to drop that Slade stopped, his head hung down. He would have been better off killed instead of cured.

His hands were caked in blood, his blind attack on what turned out to be the cement wall had shredded the skin off of his knuckles and gouged deep slices through the skin. He wasn’t sure when it had stopped bleeding. He stared numbly at the shredded skin with a sort of detached interest. When he flexed his hands, the rough scabs tore and more blood pulsed from the cracks.

The silence hung heavily around him, echoing with the phantom noises of fire crackling and crying. He clenched his fists tightly, ignoring the pain it prompted. He didn’t remember who had died, which deaths had been at his own hand, and which had just been because of him. The sting in his hands made it impossible to sleep, even if he had tried to, and Slade used that, straightening and curling his fingers whenever sleep threatened to take control.

 _What have I done?_ Slade sunk back to the ground. How did it ever get this far? How did he ever come to replicate the ones he had hated so much? Lifting his gaze, he looked back Shado as she stared at him, the dark eyes endless, empty voids. His hands twitched of their own accord, and Slade looked down, staring as the skin seemed crawl and shift, pulling close and in some places, knitting together. It lasted only a few seconds, but even still, the damage was partially fixed.

“You’re never getting better, ya know,” Billy watched him, sitting casually on the end of the cot, leaning back against the wall. “How much d’you wanna blame on the serum and how much are ya gonna realize was all you?” Slade glared at him.

“Shut up,” he muttered. Billy shrugged.

“Yah killed one partner,” he said. “What’d stop you from killing all the others? Ya brain’s fucked enough without any drugs. Why’d ya think Addy hid the kid?” Reaching over, Slade’s hand closed on the leg of the folding chair and flung it with all his strength at the sitting figure. It smashed into the stone wall, breaking into fragments. “Not helping ya argument there, mate.” The untouched tray followed the chair.

“Go away.” Slade snapped at him. Billy laughed and Slade snapped, turning and sweeping the cot away from the wall, hurling it into the one opposite. Even that didn’t affect Billy.

“What the hell do you even want?” he snarled. Billy shrugged.

“An honest conversation.”

“Fuck off.”

He threw a punch at Billy’s face, but the latter ducked underneath it, coming up behind Slade. He was too good at evading the hits, actually, wavering around Slade as he launched a furious attack at the figure of his dead partner. And suddenly the pain was back. Searing, indescribable agony that flared through every vein, every nerve, as if his very blood was burning through his skin. Slade doubled over, the intensity of it making his limbs go weak. He could barely breathe, and fell, without really feeling it, his head connecting with the cement floor.

Mercifully, darkness came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute bitch to get into writing, the dream sequence and after specifically.


	4. Hope is the Worst of All Evils

_“Hope, in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.”_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

When he came into consciousness, Slade did move immediately. He lay on the floor, sight slowly returning to him. The pain was duller now, and easier to manage. He pulled himself to his feet, stumbling a few inches before he collapsed again, this time managing to stay sitting upright on the displaced cot.

A few minutes later, the door opened, the abrasive noise shattering the silence around Slade. He ignored the voices and muttered conversation. He must have not been unconscious for long if now they were just now responding to the racket he had caused. The sharp, heavy step approached his cell, and Slade opened his eye, seeing the tight cluster of guards approaching him.

“On your feet,” the order was snapped by the guard in front, the group stopping just outside the cell. Slade studied them for several moments before he made any response to the command. The process of standing was more difficult that usual, and Slade was forced to reach out, bracing himself against the wall to stabilize himself. He didn’t think he could stand on his own. “Turn around.” The guard added. Slade did so slowly. “Hands on the back of your head.” He wavered, not stable enough to support himself, but managed to follow the order.

He heard the key click, then the door opened with a creak. He tensed instinctively at the sound of movement behind him, struggling with his need to turn and see what the guards were doing. One of them stepped closer, pulling his arms down to secure his wrists behind his back. The guard turned him around, pushing him towards the cell door. Slade stumbled, his body threatening to give out, and he was pulled upright again, escorted through the cell door.

He had no idea what was going on, and none of the guards seemed likely to tell him. They led him through the small anteroom before his cell, turning down a hallway that was dimly lit, the dark grey walls untouched by natural light. They turned and entered into a very different room, occupied by two strangers, dressed in white coats, not the black tactical gear the guards wore.

Slade was pushed forward to one of the tall, reclining chairs in the middle of the room. Still unsure of what was going on, and not trusting the sudden shift in the usual schedule, Slade hesitated at the entrance, gaze flickering around the room. There were three seats in all, set in the direct center. There were cabinets and counters built into the walls. The closest thing he could compare it to was a hospital room. He didn’t like it.

Two of the guards moved him forward, walking on either side and forcing Slade into the chair. His hands were untied, but almost immediately fastened to the arms of the chair, his palms upward. It was almost natural that he struggled against the guard’s grip. Something slammed into the back of his head, and Slade got the hint. He stopped resisting. His shoulders were pulled back against the chair, and a strap was secured over his chest, preventing him from moving away from the chair. Slade subtly tensed, trying to pull away from the bonds. He was unable to. His legs were also fastened, and Slade was utterly unable to perform any sort of attack or maneuver. Slade pressed the back of his head into the rest, trying to ground himself. Nothing good could come from such a situation.

The guards stepped away from him, two of them exiting the room while the other two stationed themselves by the door. He could hear movement behind him, but Slade was unable to turn and see what was going on. One of the men in lab coats came into his view, holding a syringe in his gloved hands. He tied a tourniquet around Slade’s arm, sterilizing a patch of skin underneath it and sliding the needle in. He glanced up, past Slade, speaking to his partner.

“No excess clotting,” he reported in a monotone voice as if this was nothing out of the usual. The tube was basically full when he untied the tourniquet, sliding the needle out and pressed a small patch of gauze over the puncture. The man left again with the blood sample, and even though Slade tried to turn his head, he was still unable to see. His fingers moved towards the strap over his wrist. He could almost reach it. If he could get himself free, he would have to get past the two guards. Their guns might not be trained on him at the moment, but they could bring the rifles to bear in a split second. His best chance, then, would be to wait until one of the men in the lab coats had come around again. Slade could use him as a shield and potentially, get by the two sentries before they could find a way around it.

The man came around again, and Slade, still restrained, was unable to put any plan into action. Instead, he watched the man warily. He was holding another syringe, full of a translucent green liquid, looking back at his partner. Slade clenched his fist, his body tensing. Several minutes dragged by before anything happened. From behind Slade, the other spoke up.

“It’ll need a few more minutes, wait on that.”

The man with the syringe passed out of sight again. Fractionally, Slade relaxed. He slipped his hand up fractionally, almost sliding it through the strap. The leather gave a telltale creak, straining to keep its hold and Slade leveled his strength against it.

“Hey!” The warning was sharp and abrupt, one of the guards seeing the movement and lifting his gun. Slade hissed out an exhale, letting his hand down again.

“Look at this,” one of the men in the lab coats murmured the words quietly, but Slade was still able to pick them up. Once again, he stiffened, no appreciating the note of shock in the man’s voice.

“That should be impossible,” his partner replied. “Try a second strip, make sure the first wasn’t faulty. If it turns out the same, I’ll up the dosage.” More minutes scraped by before another result was brought forth.

“It’s the same. Another dose will just get wiped out,” it was the first again.

“We’ll use a distractor, like we discussed,” the second said, coming into Slade’s line of sight yet again. “Get an IV.” More movement behind him, the rustle of drawers being opened and supplies pulled out. The second came up on Slade’s other side, wheeling an IV stand. The bag he hung on it had an opening at the top to pour liquid into. The man pressed the needle into Slade’s arm, following the same process the other man had earlier.

The first thing he was aware of was the burning, acute agony stemming from where the needle had been inserted. Slade inhaled sharply, yanking back against his restraints and pressing his body against the seat, seeking some way to escape this predicament. The second man in the lab coat nodded to the first, who inserted the syringe into Slade’s other arm, depressing the plunger.

He forgot about the lab coats, the guards, all of it, his eye shut tightly, his breathing ragged through clenched teeth. Even through the pain, pride kept every sound quiet. His hands clenched into fists, his shoulders tight. The question _why_ had abruptly become unimportant, irrelevant to the current situation.

His body shuddered, muscles convulsing randomly, prompted by whatever was now running through his blood. Something cold pressed into his chest, directly above his heart, and after a moment, Slade heard a voice, distant and small.

“Slow it down a little,” one of the men was saying. It felt like hours passed before he added. “There, stop.” The pain didn’t lessen, and Slade had no idea what he was referring to. He was pissed. The anguish was impossible to ignore, and the fact that they had dragged him in here, for this sole reason, was maddening.

It felt like days passed before the pain even lessened a little. Once again, his chest was prodded, something pricked his arm, and then, one of the lab coats spoke to the other.

“That should do it. We’ll run a test again in a few days.” He forced his eye open, jaw still clenched tightly, watching the needle be removed from his arm. The IV bag was just about half empty. One of the lab coats wheeled it away while the other nodded to the two guards.

“Take him back.”

The guards stepped up, unbuckling the restrains as the other lab coat stood by, watching Slade with an almost bored curiosity, as if waiting to see if he would sudden collapse or do something else medically intriguing. The Australian hissed quietly as he was pulled to his feet, one of the guards stepped around to his back, and for a brief moment, his hand was left freed.

And so, of course, he did what anyone could have expected him to do in such a situation. He punched the man wearing the lab coat.

It was as though all hell was released into that small room. The man stumbled back, knocking over his companion who tried to catch him, sending both to the ground. The guards immediately panicked, and Slade barely registered his own movement as he ducked under a frantic punch, catching the man’s arm and twisting it behind him, using him as a shield as his partner lifted his gun.

The guard hesitated, not willing to shoot his companion, eyes fixed on Slade nervously. Obviously, they all remembered the attack that had occurred not so long ago, along with subsequent deaths. His hesitation was his undoing, Slade threw the other man into him, ducking out the door before either of them had much opportunity to respond. Bullets slammed into the stone by his head. Slade snatched the heavy metal door, slamming it shut. It opened inward, meaning he had no opportunity no choices to use to block it. Instead, he left, retracing their steps from before, hyperalert for any sign of danger. He heard the clumsy footsteps of another two guards before he saw them, and stepped to the side as they rounded the corner.

The tussle was brief. Slade swept the first man’s legs out from under him, twisting the gun from his hands and dropping it onto the ground. He spun, catching the man in midstride and flinging him over the other’s body.

Then, he was moving on again, striding in long, angry steps, but not running. He came into the anteroom before his cell and stopped, seeing the small cluster of guards there all forming a barrier, guns raised. He heard voices behind him, frantic shouts and crashes. He could try to escape, to go through the door, then the hatch and into the wilderness of Lian Yu. He knew it well enough. But the guards in front of him were an undeniable obstacle, and Slade’s body was still trembling of its own accord, whatever the lab coats had put into him was still there. Two surprised guards at a time wasn’t hard, six or seven of them, guns ready and aimed, with enough space between them for triggers to be pulled, was something else entirely.

His fist clenched by his side. One the guards called out a warning. “Stand down, Wilson.” Never, in his life, had he wanted to hear those words. And never in his life had he actually, fully obeyed them. He didn’t plan on breaking that streak now. He took a few steps back, forced to drop and roll as the men started firing. A bullet nicked his shoulder. Someone shouted in the confusion, but whatever they said was lost.

Something clattered to the ground, metal rolled over stone as a silver canister stopped by him. Gas hissed loudly. Slade inhaled before he could stop himself, and tried to stand, intending to get away. Lightheaded, he stumbled, catching himself on the wall before slowly sliding to the ground, his vision blacking away.

**0              0              0              0**

When he came to, he was staring up at the grey ceiling of a cell. His cell. His body ached as though it had been burned, and his head swam. He didn’t try to move for a long moment, staying on the cold stone. Mostly, he felt drained and exhausted, both physically and mentally. He didn’t know where the weakness came from, it was almost unnerving, had he had the energy to feel such. In his peripheral vision, he could see someone standing outside the bars.

He reached out with one hand, pushing his upper body off the floor and pulling himself until his back rested against the wall. He slumped again, head falling against the cold stone, eye shutting, ignoring the other figure. He heard a light step as she moved closer to the cell, standing just on the other side of the bars. The cell, he noticed off handedly, had been tidied. All the broken shards had been removed, likely the guards, believing them to be a potential weapon. He didn’t open his eye, determined to pay no attention to the visitor, vaguely hoping it might result in being left alone.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson.” Dr. Fawn spoke softly, and despite himself, Slade looked up, eye opening. She was studying him frankly, not trying to hide the action, standing, her notebook clasped in front of her. “Can you hear me?” She asked. “And see me with any difficulty?”

“Yes,” the word was short, bitten off abruptly. She sat down on the ground, folding her legs gracefully and setting her notebook to the side. It didn’t look as though she were about to go away.

“You were recently taken out of this cell to be tested and treated for any residue Mirakuru,” Dr. Fawn continued. “Did you know that?” Slade rolled his head against the stone to stare hard at her.

“I figured it out,” he said. “I was already given the cure before this.” He didn’t need to tell her that, of course, she already knew.

“Yes, however your body is far too connected the Mirakuru, it has taken to fighting against the cure instead of the serum,” she told him. “The doctors who treated you used a type of acid in hopes to distract the Mirakuru from attacking the cure.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Slade asked abruptly, glaring at her.

“Knowing, not knowing, that doesn’t effect the treatments,” Dr. Fawn replied. “I’m not breaking ARGUS confidentiality by telling you and I’m not pretending to be to gain your trust.” Slade turned his head straight again. “The long-term effects of Mirakuru on one’s body are unknown. However, there is a chance that the serum will, after a while, attack its own host. If you are not completely rid of the serum, it may kill you.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised?” Slade asked. “Horrified? Scared?”

“I don’t come in here expecting a certain emotion,” Dr. Fawn replied crisply. “I don’t come in here expecting specific answers. Whatever you feel and think is entirely decided by you alone, I have no desire to change that. Just as you seem to have no desire to share it.” Slade met her gaze. She wasn’t angry, or put off by his constant sarcasm and cold shoulder. She simply laid down the truth, it wasn’t personal.

“I don’t trust you.” Slade said shortly. She inclined her head.

“I know. You have every reason not to. I have told you all I can, the reason I am here. I have not lied in any of our meetings,” she didn’t look away. “You aren’t willing to accept the idea that ARGUS would want to put any effort into your recovery because of what you did, and who that makes you.”

“It wouldn’t be logical,” Slade stated.

“The Mirakuru’s effects and details are all of medical interest to ARGUS,” Dr. Fawn replied. “Is that so illogical? Physically tracking the withdrawal is simply, mentally is something else entirely.”

“You suggest I trust you so ARGUS can have a more exact medical file on the Mirakuru?” Slade suggested, sarcasm creeping into his tone. She sighed.

“I suggest you trust me for your own good, no matter what ARGUS’s reasons for sending me are, your position remains the same. You are already under enormous mental struggle, lessening that in anyway possible is the smartest choice.” She said. “I told you before, Mr. Wilson. Humans are not solitary beings, and loneliness may severely damage one’s health.”

“You speak as though there’s something level I should be longing to reach,” Slade said. “Has it occurred to you I have no wish to go in that direction?” He put as much force behind the words as he could, but he was so worn out, they were barely sharpened.

“Desiring to recover isn’t selfish,” Dr. Fawn told him softly. “And allowing the Mirakuru to kill you isn’t righteousness. It’s just an easier path. You can’t take back what was done, but you can struggle forward. It’s easy to admit our faults, it’s harder to live with them. Dying doesn’t make any amends.”

The silent seconds stretched into minutes. Once, Dr. Fawn looked down at her pants smoothing out a crease then looking up again. She waited for him to speak, not making any more comments or disrupting the quiet.

“Okay,” Slade’s head still rested on the cold cement, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried. “I’m not saying I’ll answer every damn question you can think up.” He added quickly. Dr. Fawn’s lips twitched in a poorly disguised smile.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”


	5. All Truth is Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was another bitch to write...

_“All truth is simple…is that not doubly a lie?”_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

“Let’s start with your hallucinations,” Dr. Fawn said. She picked up her notebook again, opening it and setting it on one leg, the pen resting on top of the paper. “Have any occurred recently?” It was an easy question.

“Yes,” Slade let the one word out without much thought. It was easier to not think about it much, or else he knew he would start second guessing the meaning behind every question. Dr. Fawn was obviously unsurprised by his answer, and Slade suspected she had already guessed as much.

“Is there a common theme or figure you typically see?” she asked. It was another question that could simply be answered with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but Slade hesitated over it a moment longer. It used to be Shado, almost exclusively. She had been everywhere, constantly, so real and life like, that he still couldn’t really convince himself she was just been a hallucination. But he hadn’t seen her since Starling. Billy’s appearance had taken him aback, because he had never seen his previous partner before. But the one visit from the figure wasn’t enough to warrant mentioning, and Slade shook his head.

“No.” He didn’t make any reference to the horrid, hallucinations and dreams that had fucked with his sense of reality for what felt like months during the earlier steps of the cure’s progress.

Dr. Fawn looked down at her journal, jolting down a note. As usual, Slade was unable to read it. Saying he was willing to cooperate was one thing, he was still not convinced the entire thing wasn’t going to blow up in his face.

“Can you describe some of the side affects you underwent during the withdrawal?” Dr. Fawn asked the question clearly, her eyes going back up from her book. “Starting directly after being first injected with the cure.” This was a more complicated question, and not one that could be answered with one word. Several minutes passed as Slade considered it closely, trying to find some logical reason that might suggest dangerous motives behind it.

“There weren’t any at first,” he finally said.

“When did they start?” Dr. Fawn inquired. Slade thought back, trying to straighten out his shaky grasp of time to clarify exactly when the moment had been.

“A few months later,” he settled on.

“And can you describe what they were?” Dr. Fawn pressed, returning to her original question. Yet again, Slade didn’t reply at once. It was, in a way, admitting a weakness to an enemy. For as long as he could remember, weakness was something to hide away, to fight through, though he would never claim skills greater than his own. The need to hide away anything that could be exploited was just as strong as it had ever been. Even now, as he sat on the floor, propped up against the stone wall, body covered in multiple bruises and afflictions, it was too stubborn to be put down. “There are more difficult questions than this,” she stated. “And knowing what the Mirakuru withdrawal is doing to you is vitally important.” There was a long period of silence between them, Dr. Fawn watching him calmly, waiting.

“Blind spells are still fairly common,” Slade said.

“Does there seem to be any lasting damage to your sight?” Dr. Fawn asked the logical follow up, and Slade shook his head, not bothering to give a vocal reply. She nodded understanding, writing down another note. “What about periods of weakness or intense pain?” she continued. “Have you experience either of those?”

“Both,” Slade stated. He stared at the wall across from him, not facing Dr. Fawn. Occasionally, he would glance towards her, but in general, he didn’t try to hold eye contact throughout the discussion. Even so, he still caught every small movement he made, instincts refusing to let him just turn his back and pretend she wasn’t present.

“Do you remember everything that happened while you were under the drug’s influence?” Dr. Fawn shifted topics, moving away from the side effects of the cure. There was no simple answer for this one. Slade didn’t even know himself.

“Yes,” he said, but there was a hesitation before the word that she immediately picked up on, understanding there was more to the answer than just that. When he didn’t offer clarification, she continued, searching for an answer.

“Do you not remember somethings?”

“I remember everything,” Slade denied. He added, almost as an afterthought. “More than everything.” Dr. Fawn tipped her head to the left, not entirely understanding his statement, but encouraging him to continue. “There were some dreams,” Slade muttered. “Or…hallucinations. Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate them from what actually happened. “I know what happened…but sometimes, I don’t remember. It gets muddled and I don’t know who’s dead or alive. If I killed them or-” He stopped speaking abruptly, he hadn’t meant to say that much. Dr. Fawn folded her hands together.

“Periods of confusion are natural,” she said. “In time it should clear. We still do not have a full understanding of how the Mirakuru effected your mind. Eventually…”

“It’ll abruptly become blindingly obvious?” Slade scoffed. Sarcasm was easier to fall back on. “I wasn’t aware ARGUS had become actually adept.”

“One can hope,” she didn’t rise to the mocking tone, standing from her seated position on the floor and brushing away the particles of dirt that still resided on her pants. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wilson.” She said quietly, she was studying him again, and this time, Slade had the uncomfortably feeling she was searching for something in particular. But she merely tucked the journal under one arm. “We’ll continue this discussion later.” She left, and Slade dropped his head down into his hands. He was unraveling, and he needed to get ahold of himself before he said too much.

**XxxX**

The discussion was continued. Dr. Fawn came in daily, around what must have been midday, and over the next three days, she asked Slade questions about the serum, the withdrawal, its influence and a range of other topics. She had breached a question about his son once, but Slade had clammed up and shut her down so abruptly, she hadn’t mentioned anything so personal since. Likewise, she didn’t ask anything about his attack on Starling.

They were short periods, always under an hour, usually even less than thirty minutes. It seemed to depend primarily Slade. He usually didn’t make it very long before falling back into his typical dislike of conversation and said something sardonic to which Dr. Fawn would reply to quietly and calmly before leaving. Slade would pace around the cell for the entire conversation, while Dr. Fawn sat still in the folding chair. The pattern should have been a warning sign that the entire thing was becoming too natural. But either Slade didn’t see it, or he ignored it subconsciously, both were dangerous enough. Over the three days, it seemed the cure was working effectively, Slade had no blind or weak periods, and no sudden onsets of confusion.

On the fourth day, things changed. The guards came in around midday, calling out the familiar orders telling Slade to turn around and place his hands on the back of his head. They entered the cell, securing Slade’s wrists behind him, and led him out of the cell. Once again, they walked toward the small medical room, and Slade closed his hands into fists, contemplating his chances of taking down the guards. They stepped into the room, the same two men dressed in lab coats were standing in the back of the room. One of them, Slade noticed, had a dark bruise on the side of his face.

He stopped at the entrance of the room, two guards were still behind him, the other already in the small medical room. He could throw himself backward, knocking one of the guards off balance and using him as a shield. If he moved fast enough, he could-

“Mr. Wilson.”

Slade hadn’t seen her at first, standing out of immediate sight by the wall, blocked from his vision by the guard standing in front of him. Now, however, she moved away from the side of the room. “Please have a seat,” she continued. It was strange seeing her in a different situation, one Slade had not expected to see her in. Every previous time, there had been a set of bars in front of him, and without that, something about her appearance felt off. It was a moment before suspicion set in. If ARGUS thought sending in the doctor to calm him down was going to work, they were sorely mistaken. He had no desire to cooperate any more than he had previously. “This will just be a simple blood test.” Dr. Fawn added. She didn’t drop her gaze away as he stared at her, trying to detect some lie in the sentence.

Reluctantly, Slade moved forward, the guards going with him and steering him towards one of the chairs. His arms were fastened to the sides as usual, but he stayed still. Dr. Fawn was still in his range of sight, although the two men in white weren’t until one came in front of him. He went through the same process as last time, tying the tourniquet around Slade’s arm and sliding the needle in. Throughout the entire process, Slade watched him carefully.

When he removed the syringe and untied the tourniquet, Slade instinctively flexed his arm, feeling how tight the straps were and making sure the limb was still mobile. One of the guards mistook the gesture and stepped forward, rifle coming up to aim at Slade’s head.

“It’s alright,” Dr. Fawn stepped in, and surprisingly, the guard let his weapon down by his side. One of the lab coats didn’t agree. Slade couldn’t see him, but he heard the man immediately disagree, making no effort to speak quietly.

“If he acts out, shoot him!” he couldn’t tell, but Slade suspected it was the same man he had punched some days ago.

“He has not shown any aggression since entering the room,” Dr. Fawn answered, she sounded much calmer than the man. “It would be unfortunate to misunderstand a gesture and respond with unnecessary violence.”

“No violence is unnecessary when responding to anything done by this man.”

Slade saw Dr. Fawn’s gaze turn to the guards. He suspected they still had a higher level of authority. The one she looked towards stepped forward next to Slade.

“If the test is done, we’ll return the prisoner to his cell,” he said. The man in the lab coat must have nodded, because Slade was unfastened from the chair. This time, they didn’t allow his hands to be free. Undoing the bonds on one and immediately fastening a cuff around his wrist. Slade stood, and followed the man’s prompting, starting out of the room. Dr. Fawn walked with them. The four guards formed a sort of circle around Slade while they moved, and she walked just outside it. When they reached his cell, Slade was let in, his cuffs removed and the guards departed. Dr. Fawn remained there, however.

Slade turned to face her. “What was the point of all that?” he asked, voice almost a growl.

“To make sure the second dosage of the cure is making a difference,” Dr. Fawn replied. He crossed his arms, still standing on the other side of the bars, and glared at her. She glanced down at the floor momentarily. “That was not an attempt to trick you,” she answered. “The entire reason for my being there was my own curiosity. I wanted to see the results of the test in person. The incident with the gun was also nothing more” Slade’s eye narrowed, and she folded her arms in front of her. “You don’t believe me. I thought we had moved past that part about you thinking everything was a conspiracy.”

“And I thought we’d moved past the bullshitting part,” Slade said harshly. “And past the part where I actually believe a single damn thing you say or trust any or your motives.”

“Believe what you want to believe, Mr. Wilson, apparently I can’t change your mind,” Dr. Fawn said simply. “You’ve trained yourself to not trust anyone and I doubt that will change. Especially when you still don’t trust yourself.” It was an abrupt, unapologetic comment, and probably much truer than he cared to admit. “The blood test was negative; however, it will have to be performed in a couple more weeks. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wilson.”


	6. Purgatory Surpasses Heaven and Hell

“Purgatory surpasses heaven and hell because it represents a future and the others do not.” 

-François-René de Chateaubriand

There was no forward progress that night. Shortly after being left alone, Slade had a visitor. For the first few hours, he successfully ignored Billy, pacing around the cell and doing other things to keep himself busy while he pretended the figure wasn’t there. But he didn’t leave. He stayed there, seated on the cot, his back propped against the wall, watching Slade idly.

“Not going to work, ya know,” Wintergreen said casually. Slade continued to pace. He didn’t know how many times he had lapped the small cell, he hadn’t tried to count. “You’re trying to ignore me, but your own mind’s refusing to. Just doesn’t add up, does it?” And that was where the hitch lay. Billy wasn’t some phantom or ghost, sent back from the afterlife to haunt him -not that Slade had _ever_ believed such fantasies- but a vivid projection of Slade’s own mind. And because of that, he had no idea how to get rid of him. “They think you’re bloody crazy,” Billy added helpfully. “Not like you’ve been acting sane, though.”

“I don’t need you to lecture me,” Slade snapped at him. “I know what’s going on.”

“I’d say the doctor is the one to look out for,” Billy continued, ignoring Slade’s input. But then again, even when he was alive and a physical being, he had never listened to Slade’s interruptions. “The guards' role is obvious, those lab coats are here to make sure you won’t go back to being batshit insane and kill them all.”

“No,” Slade corrected. “That’s her job. The sanity part.” He rested his hands against the bars, facing away from Billy so that he didn’t have to look at his once friend. Truthfully, he still couldn’t reconcile all of it. He didn’t trust anyone who resembled something close to Dr. Fawn’s role, doctors, psychiatrists, he was always wary around them, and exceedingly suspicious. And yet, she had seen genuine, he hadn’t been able to catch her in any lie, she acquiesced any time he avoided a topic in their conversations. She seemed honest, simply trying to do exactly what she had told him she was here for; to study the Mirakuru’s effects on his mind.

“You destroyed probably more than half a city,” Billy reminded him. “She may seem polite and calm, but the second you seem off I bet she calls the nearest guard to shoot you.” He shrugged. “Then again, she is ARGUS, probably shoot you herself.” And that was the hitch, Slade realized, the most unnerving part of it. The guards were wary around him, and detested him. Not only for killing their companions, but also, for all else he had done. The men in the lab coats were the same way. But Dr. Fawn wasn’t. Either she was masterful at hiding that hatred and fear, or she didn’t have it. If it was the former, what else was she hiding? And the latter…if that part was true, then Slade had no reason to trust her. He circled around the cell, this time, not trying to ignore Billy, but trying to straighten out his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing,” Billy told him, Slade shook his head. It was true. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a purpose, a reason to keep fighting forward. There was no goal he was trying to reach, no mission to accomplish. He sat down and dropped his head into his hands, feeling the motion pull at the deep gouges over his knuckles. “Funny though, ain’t it, how everyone’s so obsessed with keeping you alive.” That had started with Oliver, and Slade still didn’t understand his actions. He should have died, on the freighter, in Starling, but he hadn’t, and Slade hadn’t planned past that.

Noise suddenly erupted from beyond his cell, and Slade straightened, pacing over to the bars, adrenaline spiking. The telltale sounds of a fight were not so distant as they had been just a few seconds earlier. His fists clenched loosely, considering his options if the fight burst into this area. He heard gunshots and shouts, undoubtedly from the guards trying to seize control of the situation. It seemed to work, the shouts of the prison guards gained volume. More crashes ensured, and he rolled his wrists, tension flowing through his body.

“Sounds like someone’s getting rowdy,” Billy commented. Slade shook his head dismissively.

“Who’s surprised?” he muttered. It hadn’t been the first time some of the prisoners had acted out, although it seemed to become more and more frequent. But again, that really wasn’t a surprise. Even the guards started to feel pent up after spending weeks underground. Combined with an obvious lack of cooperation the inmates felt, it was a recipe for disaster and fights. It was just a wonder it didn’t happen more often.

It felt like hours before the noise decreased, and the sudden silence that followed seemed ominous. He heard rapid footsteps before two guards appeared, glaring at him suspiciously. Slade turned away, pacing to the back of his cell and ignoring both of them. After a few minutes of careful scrutiny of the cell bars, the guards departed. Slade imagined they had been concerned he had made some escape attempt during the matter. Thinking back, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t.

But what if he had? Where would he go? The question took him back, and Slade was left wondering when that uncertainty had set in. And yet, it was true. Even if he were to get out of this cell, he didn’t know where he’d go. Sometime in the cell, his need for revenge had died away, drifting away like a raft and leaving him stranded. He circled the cell restlessly, needing a respite from his own mind.

What had he done?

**0              0              0              0**

“On your feet. Turn around and place hands on your head!”

Slade lifted his head, slowly standing in response to the order. The cell door creaked open, and two guards entered, going through the familiar routine of pulling his hands behind him and securing them. When they turned him around and led him towards the door, Slade followed quietly. They walked to the medical room, and he immediately scanned the space, although he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Billy followed behind him idly, arms swinging down by his sides as he looked about.

There was no one else in the space, and the abrupt change in what was usually a constant routine almost made Slade paused. Instead, he walked on to the chair, sitting down without a fight and putting up with the restraints that were tightened over his wrists. This time, it was one of the guards who stepped into his line of sight, carrying a syringe full of liquid.

This time, at least, there seemed to be no need for whatever had been in the IV bag they used the previous time. As the man pressed the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger, Slade pressed his head back into the chair, fighting down the curiosity that nudged his tired mind. The guards left him in the chair for several long minutes, allowing for the cure to take hold before moving him again. One of them stood by the door, constantly looking about. The level of alertness was new, even more extreme than what they had shown previously. Slade turned his gaze to the other who stood closer, one hand tapping the handle of his weapon.

“What’s going on?” he didn’t know if he actually expected an answer to the question. The guard closest to him shot him a look somewhere between nervousness and calculation. His eyes flickered to his companion as the two of them struggled to decide how much they wanted to tell Slade.

“That’s not important,” the first one said stiffly.

“Talkative, isn’t he?” Wintergreen commented.

Slade narrowed his eye fractionally, immediately mulling over what seemed most likely to have happened. The most obvious thought was the first to enter his head, and an unrecognizable feeling churning inside him. There had been a disturbance the previous day, that was obvious and it seemed matter hadn’t been easily put to rest.

“Fewer guards, fewer people, what do you think happened?” Billy asked sardonically. It was easy to come to the logical conclusion that the commotion had caused severe casualties. “If Waller’s shoving all those people in here, they’re gonna revolt eventually and cause some commotion, maybe knock off a few people.”

Slade stayed silent for the remainder of the time spent in the room, the passive gesture did little to take the guards away from their nervous edge. At least one of them was constantly eyeing him suspiciously as if expecting a sudden attack at any moment. When they unfastened him from the chair, Slade stood silently, moving his hands behind him without prompting.

He was escorted back to his cell, as they entered the area directly before it, another guard was just stepping out of the cell, seeming to have completed a full search of the area. He nodded to the two escorting Slade, who marched him into the cell, removing the restraints and locking the door again. One stayed stationed outside the bars. The small space had been ransacked, scavenged completely in the search, and Slade had to right the cot again before sitting down. Lacing his fingers together, Slade leaned forward, staring down at the grey floor. At the edge of his vision, he saw Wintergreen recline back against the wall, boredom clear on his features and posture.

“Sure a lot quieter around here, ain’t it? More peaceful, at least.”

“Shut up.”

The guard outside the cell looked up at the two words, and Slade ignored him, shaking his head fractionally as if that would rid him in the unwelcome figure. The man looked at him uncertainly, and understandably so.

“Don’t tell me you’re upset about this,” Wintergreen intoned dramatically. Slade glared at him, tired of the conversation.

“There’s too much of a chance something will go wrong,” Slade replied shortly. “And I don’t want to be involved in that fallout.” He watched the guard take a few cautious steps away.

“Really? ‘Cause you should be. Instead of sitting here like a tamed _dog_.” The intonation of the last word was heavy, and Slade leaned back against the wall, trying to shut out the unwelcome voice. “Since when’ve you done that?”

_Since Starling. Since nearly destroying a city. Since murdering a woman in front of her son._

“Since when have you cared?” Billy countered. Slade almost laughed at that, a humorless, lifeless laugh that died somewhere in his chest.

“Since when have your being here been appreciated?” he asked back.

“If you really wanted me gone, I would be. But here I am.” He spread his hands wide. “Telling you what you’re really just telling yourself. Stop throwing yourself a pity party and get the hell out of here.” In reality, that wasn’t an option. Because no matter how much it was his instinct, his nature to struggle back against such things, to always keep fighting. But today, this time, he didn’t have that right. Because he deserved to be here. It was all for the best, and no measure of his pride nor stubborn instinct could state otherwise.

Billy didn’t respond to any of that, although he did let out a small scoff, head dropping back against the wall as he closed his eyes. His lack of denial seemed to only further prove the truth of the matter, and Slade didn’t try to continue the conversation. The guard at least seemed relieved by that, as his nervous glances, trying to see _who_ or _what_ Slade had been talking to, slowly stopped.

The oppressive silence that came was depressing, bearing the gravity of the entire matter and everything that had happened. It was strange how time seemed to stand still on the island as if Lian Yu wasn’t even under the influence of the years. Life went on beyond the blue waters, and yet on this dirt, nothing changed. Day and year had little difference, and death was the only release from purgatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was kind of happy to finally just let Slade be alone for a chapter, but there's also just such a massive part of me that struggles to keep it even remotely interesting without repeating myself twenty seven times.


	7. He Who Has a Why to Live

_“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.”_

_-Friedrich Nietzsche_

From that point on, there was always a guard stationed on side his cell. They were increasingly nervous around him, expecting him to attack at any moment and never fully turning their backs to him. The quiet carried an uneasy weight, like the calm in the middle of a storm. They were all waiting. Slade felt it as well. The overwhelming, almost crippling fear that something terrible was about to happen; and when it did, he would be helpless to stop it.

**0              0              0              0**

An air of urgency set in soon after that. Guards passed by Slade’s cell almost unendingly, although what they were doing, Slade had no idea. He watched the guards go from the passageway, leading to the rest of the prison, out of the door past his cell, the exit. It almost seemed ironic, he thought, that _he_ was the one they placed closest to the exit. The door was, of course, heavily secured, locked, guarded, and watched at all times. But there were always ways to get around such things. The guards’ nervousness didn’t lessen. Maybe it was something to do with his previously (and probably still) heightened senses, either way, Slade could almost _feel_ their anxiety, and it was unsettling. It seemed to suggest that their control was slipping, and that was never good news.

Then again, whose side was he on?

He didn’t know what time it was, but after hours of activity, two guards stopped outside his cell as a third unlocked it. Slade stood slowly, followed the now expected system of turning and raising his hands almost before the guard even began to speak. They walked out of the cell, stopping him just outside and Slade stood still, watching the two guards enter and search the cell thoroughly. It left him with only one man standing next to him, weapon held protectively on his other side. The search was nothing short of an invasion, the guards seemed determined to find something, anything that doubled as a weapon or threat. Despite the time he spent there, Slade had never tried to distinguish between the guards. In technicality, they were all the same.

Eventually, the two guards exited the cell. “Clear.” One of them reported, nodding to the other standing next to Slade. Unsurprisingly, their next move was to turn, intending to lead Slade back to the cell, and he followed the instruction. The progress was halted almost immediately, however, when they were hailed by an unfamiliar voice.

“What’s going on?” the lone figure approach entered from the main way, and Slade instinctively shifted his posture to face the newcomer. His uniform was the same as the other guards, but clearly, he wielded some authority, as was obvious when the three around Slade straightened their postures at once.

“Just a routine check, sir,” one of them reported. “Nothing was found.” The man stopped in front of the four, eyeing Slade distastefully. His features were unfamiliar, but clearly, he recognized the Australian. He was younger than Slade himself, and most men who stepped into such positions of authority. His accent was obviously American.

“Not anymore,” he said abruptly, looking to one of the other guards. “The prisoners can no longer be kept at such distances, it stretches the security too thin, it’s a hazard. Move him to a common block.” The man ordered crisply, stepping back. The three guards muttered a ‘yes sir’ in unison, accepting the order without question. Slade, however, was skeptical.

“Stacking your entire security force in one location is poor choice.”

His calm words brought varying degrees of shock in response. One of the three guards looked for a second, as though he nodded in quiet agreement. The other two were hesitant to profess any such disloyalty to their superior officer, however, and didn’t make any gestures. The newcomer looked taken aback by Slade’s interjection, and turned back to meet Slade’s gaze. He had a few inches on the Australian, but then again, that wasn’t uncommon, and Slade had never had the (in his opinion) foolish need to be able to stare down at his opponent.

“I don’t recall asking for your input,” the man snapped, voice sour. Slade shrugged, not put off by the man’s tone. He wasn’t looking for a conversation, the idea was simply stupid in the extreme, and the Australian thought it necessary to point that out. But his silence did little to settle the ruffled ARGUS agent. “Or do you intend to tell me how to run a prison?” There was heavy sarcasm in the voice. Slade hadn’t been looking for a conversation, but there was a blatant challenge in the words, and as much as he tried, he had never been good at backing down from such encounters.

“I was pointing out a flaw in your idea,” he stated, still keeping the level of calm in his voice. “If you’re trying to impede a riot, it’d be wiser to keep the prisoners further apart.” He could see how angry he was making the man. It was made worse, however, when the guard who had previously nodded put in a hesitant voice.

“Agent Hendrix,” the newcomer looked towards him, and the guard continued nervously. “It will run the risk of having the guards overwhelmed by prisoners should they get out, sir.” ‘Hendrix’ looked less than happy with this advancement, and stepped forward.

“Did I miss something in my assignment details that stated we take our prompts from the prisoners?” Hendrix asked icily. The guard shook his head. “Especially psychotic, imbalanced prisoners with a history of unpredictable violence?” He pressed.

“No sir,” the guard replied. Slade’s eye narrowed fractionally. He had worked in the military for years. And maybe he had never been stationed at a prison, but he knew the logical steps that came with holding dangerous people. Hendrix saw the expression.

“Something to add, Wilson?” It was a warning, it should have been rhetorical, but it was Hendrix’s fault. He phrased it as a question.

“How long has ARGUS been accepting incompetence?” Slade saw the punch coming, and didn’t make any move to duck away. The hit landed squarely, and Slade’s head snapped back under the force. The metallic taste of blood trickled through his mouth and the Australian impatiently shook off the punch. The three guards were leading him away before the situation escalated.

They led him past the medical room, through a heavy steel door before passing the first cell blocks. The people inside the cells fell silent as they passed, some standing, some walking to the bars. But every set of eyes followed them as they walked past the cells. Slade ignored them.

It wasn’t until they had passed two blocks, passing through two more steel doors before the guard veered from their straight path to an empty cell, walking Slade in and releasing his hands before stepping out. The other prisoners watched Slade with a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and menace. Slade didn’t permit himself to return the looks, seating himself on the cot and staring at the wall opposite, reflecting on the new information.

Hendrix was easy to rile, and he seemed too inexperienced and young to have been appointed to oversee such an important position. It offered several conclusions. First; he wasn’t the primary administrator for the prison, and merely passing along orders from a higher source. Second; ARGUS was in a time of crisis, and Hendrix had been one of the few men they could spare. Third; it was all part of an elaborate plan. Or the fourth option; Hendrix had some pull within ARGUS, and had received the position out of favoritism. Slade almost snorted at that. No sane person would want this position. Logic ruled out the fourth option. What did that leave, then? There was also the slim chance that Hendrix had some level of intelligence that Slade had not previously seen. He was doubtful of that.

None of the other prisoners in the four-cell block tried to make conversation with him, although they exchanged looks and muttered words, casting frequent looks in Slade’s direction. They didn’t know if he was a threat or potential ally. Some of them probably knew him, the entire episode in Starling hadn’t been kept quiet.

There were six guards stationed in the block, standing rigidly outside the cells, and occasionally turning to pace several feet in one direction. Everyone was tense, expectant of something to happen at any given moment. Looking away from the wall and trailing his gaze over the two cells across the walkway, Slade found the two occupants staring back at him, hostile. He straightened from the cot, pacing around the cell. The guards looked up at the movement, tensing.

When Slade turned back towards the cot, he saw his seat had been taken. He walked past Billy, not giving the hallucination a second glance. Wintergreen wasn’t thrown off by that. “Someone’s about ready to start fighting.” He commented. Slade shook his head mutely. The last thing he needed was to get into another conversation with a figment of his imagination.

“So you’re Wilson.” It wasn’t Billy who spoke this time, and Slade looked up, through the bars to the man who stood, facing him, arms crossed in the cell opposite. There was something arrogant in his posture, and sensing his words held aggressive context, he merely turned away.

“Hey, no talking!” One of the guards spoke up, threatening the other prisoner with his gun. The man looked at him dismissively, ignoring the warning.

“I just asked you a question,” the prisoner said, still speaking to Slade, who’s silence seemed to be boosting his confidence. The Australian shrugged.

“Didn’t sound like it,” he replied casually, meeting the man’s gaze evenly. The man opened his mouth, and Slade interrupted him. “You know who I am, don’t make this a problem.” The man didn’t have a response for that, and the uncomfortable silence fell again. It didn’t last for long.

“Seems like you’d be the first to try to get out of here, friend,” the prisoner commented. The guard knocked his weapon against the bars loudly.

“Last warning!”

It was a blatant challenge now, the underlying message _are you with us or against us_ was clear, and Slade didn’t look away from the mud brown eyes.

“I’m not your friend, don’t make the mistake of assuming I’d be on your side.” Slade replied. The man’s expression turned ugly; it hadn’t been the answer he had hoped for.

“You need to watch your back,” he hissed, the prisoner next to him echoing the threatening stare. The guards interjected, calling for silence. They were losing control of the prisoners, and they knew it.

**0              0              0              0**

None of the other prisoners tried to speak to him after that, and Slade sensed he had made enemies. The number of guards stayed the same, although they were replaced in intervals. Daily, each cell was searched, one at a time. It was the only time the cell doors were opened. Billy’s presence was frequent, but he spoke less and less, preferring to sit and watch Slade unblinkingly. It was worse than the endless conversation.

Hendrix was a recurring presence. He appeared several times a day, speaking to the guards, asking questions, and repeating a search of the cells. It was on the second day when Slade came to a strange realization. Hendrix was suspicious of the guards. It was obvious in his body language, the way he insisted on searching the cells again.

If one of the guards had agreed to work with the prisoners, it added a new level to the equation. But Slade couldn’t say he was surprised. Many of them were previously influential figures, leaders of criminal organizations or mobs, and they had friends. Cronies who thought they could endear themselves to their bosses. The idea that one of them had managed to infiltrate ARGUS was unlikely, but far from impossible.

**0              0              0              0**

The racket of noise destroyed any semblance of peace that had settled over the sleeping prison. Slade was awake in an instant, his eye snapping open as he straightened from his seated position. The prisoner from the cell across from him was being dragged into the hallway, struggling against the guards who had a hold of him. Two other ARGUS guards were overturning the cell, tossing everything aside in their search. Hendrix was overseeing it all, standing with his arms crossed behind his back, waiting. He didn’t have long to wait. One of the guards stopped, rummaging through the overturned cot and pulling out something Slade couldn’t see. The guard gave it to Hendrix. The latter studied it for a moment before nodding once.

A single gunshot rang out, and the prisoner dropped to the ground. Hendrix called out an order and the guards stepped over the body, moving to the next cell. They searched the other two, finding nothing, before coming to Slade’s. His cell door opened, and the guards filtered inside, gesturing for him to stand. He followed the command, and was led out of the cell. His gaze fell on the still body of the prisoner. It was a clean shot, the small hole directly between his eyes. The guards searched his cell, and Slade’s gaze went to watch them. Hendrix stood just outside, watching the guards in their search. After a couple minutes, the guards exited, shaking their heads in response to Hendrix’s question. He almost looked disappointed. He faced Slade.

“You spoke to him,” he jerked his head to the dead prisoner. “The guards on duty reported it.” When Slade didn’t reply, Hendrix took a step forward, annoyed. “What do you know about this?” he spat out the question. “You’re involved. Maybe even their leader.” At that blatant accusation, Slade almost raised an eyebrow.

“After only two days of being around any of them, I must be convincing,” he commented dryly. Hendrix’s eyes narrowed. He had obviously already convinced himself that Slade was involved. Clearly, they had not started on good terms. He didn’t have any proof, but in such a prison, evidence wasn’t even necessary. The guards around Slade stood quietly, watching the interaction patiently, waiting for the decision. Hendrix stepped back fractionally, nodding to the guards.

“Take him to the medical ward.”


	8. To Live is the Rarest Thing

_To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. -Oscar Wilde._

 

Slade didn’t struggle against the guards as they led him out of the cellblock and back to the medical room. Hendrix followed, leaving four guards to stay by the block. The two guards took Slade to one of the chairs, making him sit and securing his arms and legs. They stepped back, standing behind the chair, close enough to still be a threat. Even so, Slade didn’t try to keep them in his gaze. Instead, he focused on Hendrix, who had just entered the room. The Australian held his silence, not attempting to claim any innocence.

“You killed two guards,” Hendrix stated blandly, clasping his hands behind him. “Injured several more. If any prisoner here was likely to attempt a revolt, you’d be at the top of the suspect list.” Slade held his gaze, and Hendrix frowned fractionally, obviously not pleased with his lack of response of any sort. “Do you have any excuse?”

“If you really think I’m behind any of that, you’re dumber than I thought,” Slade replied. It wasn’t the answer Hendrix had been looking for. His eyes went to one of the guards and he nodded once. The sudden blow to Slade’s solar plexus took him by surprise, and he grunted with a small grimace.

“Six days ago you attacked a doctor, ran from this very room and injured multiple guards,” Hendrix said. The memory was clear. “You had to be put down by force, not the first time such a thing has happened. It does seem funny though,” he added, in a tone devoid of humor. “The same doctor you punched was the first to be killed.” _The first._ Slade’s hands tightened fractionally. It was the first real detail he had received, and it didn’t shed a good light on the events that had passed. Hendrix lifted his brows in an expression of mock shock. “You look surprised.” Slade glared at him.

“I wasn’t aware of what happened,” he all but snapped. “I heard the fighting; I didn’t see any of it.” The conversation was grating on his nerves now. He wanted to ask if there were any other casualties, but he knew he couldn’t, and instead, the pointless line of questioning was annoying.

“Really?” Hendrix didn’t believe him, and the question was more sarcastic than anything else. Slade didn’t rise to the bait, merely tipping his head fractionally, gaze steadily fixed on Hendrix. He refused to be stared down, to give even an inch, and eventually, it was Hendrix who looked away. He paced around the room, though if he expected the silence to make Slade nervous, he was wasting his time. “What did you talk about with the prisoner?” he asked, changing topics abruptly. Slade felt a prickle of annoyance at his persistence, this conversation wasn’t going to give him anything.

“You had guards on duty, they should be able to tell you,” he said, voice near a snap. He saw Hendrix’s rising anger and continued before the man could interject. “You have little real control in this place, no matter how much you pretend to. This little demonstration was meant to what? Convince me to confess to something I realistically could have never done. Or to insinuate you have some minuscule portion of control?” Slade had always had the unique ability to royally piss people off; somehow, it had always come naturally. Whether through actively infuriating them or simply acting indifferent, he’d always have at least one way to make enemies. This Hendrix was really no different, although now, Slade didn’t particularly care about how he felt. The situation was absurd, and if he wanted to prevent a riot, he needed to approach the mattered differently. Unfortunately, Hendrix wasn’t smart enough to see that.

“Kind of thick, isn’t he?” Billy voiced the thought, frowning as he leaned back against the wall. Slade envied the sword slung over his back, and the other weapons he knew were scattered across his once friend's body. Hendrix crossed his arms, angering seeming to radiate off him.

“There are no laws protecting you Wilson,” Hendrix threatened. “Maybe ARGUS doesn’t want you dead quite yet, but there are other options. A medically induced coma is at the top of that list.” Was he supposed to be frightened? Cowed by the warning? He had already accepted the fact that Hendrix was far from the brightest in the lot, but Slade had thought he would be more intelligent than that. “You will inform us of everything you know about the uprising, the prisoners involved, everything.”

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” Slade growled. “I’ve told you, you’re wasting your time. I wasn’t involved, I don’t know anything.” There was a smug look in Hendrix’s face now, as though Slade’s denial had been exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Except we have proof that is a lie,” he said with a cold smile. “You see one of the prisoners, who you claim to have had no involvement with, was able to break free of his cell without any sort of weapon. He did this through brute strength, ripping through the bars, sound familiar? Now ARGUS swears he never showed any such feats before being captured. When his blood was tested for anything unnormal, it bore an uncanny resemblance to your own. How you accomplished such a thing we have yet to figure out, but we will, Wilson, don’t be mistaken. You won’t win this. You have two options, cooperate and confess freely, or you will be forced to confess.”

Of all the moronic things that could happen, this was the last thing Slade would have expected. He heard one of the guards stepping up behind the chair, but didn’t take his eyes off of Hendrix. The man waited, an expression of exaggerated expectancy painted on his face. Wheels rattled off of the smooth cement floor as a guard wheeled an IV rack alongside the chair.

“Well then,” Hendrix nodded to the guard. Slade didn’t flinch, even as the heavy needle punctured his arm, tearing a hole through his skin. The burning, white hot pain was instantaneous, spreading so fast that Slade’s breath momentarily stopped. His vision wavered, black spots dancing across the sights in front of him, and he swallowed back a curse. He heard rather than saw Hendrix pace across the room, pulling out a stool and sitting down, watching Slade with a sadistic sort of curiosity. He tried to distract himself, to settle into that familiar, detached zone that had gotten him through so many sessions of torture in the years past. It was difficult, more so than it should have been. Previous times, he had concealed information, refused to give away the knowledge that his captors were looking for. Today, it was no such thing. The information they were looking for he didn’t have, but the way the pieces had fallen, all the evidence said he did. An unexpected swarm of anger rose at the stupidity of it all, and Slade had to struggle to push it back. He couldn’t afford to allow the serum to resurge now and taint his clarity.

 _Inhale_. _Exhale._ He focused on the slow, rhythmic pattern, unable to fully distract himself from the searing agony scorching through his body. Dark spots clustered in his vision. He had suffered burns before, and it reminded him of that time, it seemed impossible that his skin was still unmarred and unaffected by the contents of the bag as it assaulted his body. He didn’t allow himself to look towards the IV bag. Even once it emptied, there was no promise that was the end. Looking forward to a stop would do him no good. He had learned that at a young age; expecting the future would only bring unnecessary grief, it was better to simply suffer the present. It wouldn’t kill him, Hendrix had, whether intentionally or not, made that obvious.

 _Inhale. Exhale._ His lungs failed him. Unable to draw in air, Slade fought against the bonds, the instinct to fight overriding any pretense of calm he had tried to keep. Metal from the restrains cut into him, and abruptly, air rushed into him once again. He coughed on it, the suddenness taking him by surprise. His vision was blurred, his surroundings made up entirely of rough shapes and forms. The pain was undistinguishable now, a constant, unbearable weight pressing down. He tried to fight it. Darkness overtook him.

**0              0              0              0**

The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in his mouth. Slade forced his eye open. He was in the same chair as before, how much time had passed; he had no way of knowing. The IV had been removed, but he could feel the residue pain etched underneath his skin. He felt weak, unable to move. There was a particular throb in his wrist, different from the rest, but now, he paid it little mind. He tried to clear his sight, blinking away the film that had settled over it. Even breathing was agonizing, as though his lungs were rejecting the very purpose of their existence. He was aware of the sound of voices, their words drowned out by a buzzing in his ears. Everything seemed distant, as though he wasn’t really part of the world.

Was he dead? It explained his inability to move his limbs, the greyness that settled about him, the shroud that seemed to hand in between himself and the physical world. He found that idea didn’t bother him. Although it hurt more than he anticipated.

“-stable now.” The ringing in his ears quieted, and Slade was able to understand the specifics of the conversation around him. He flexed his fingers, sense tingling down his arm slowly. He wasn’t dead after all. “Obviously, he retained some of his regenerative ability.”

“You should consider that fortunate, Agent.” It was a familiar, feminine voice, the typically calm tone replaced with a quiet, controlled anger. Slade tried to shake away the fuzziness in his head, searching his surroundings with a new level of interest. He was still restrained, although when he moved one of his arms, he felt no pressure against it. The simple gesture caused a flurry of movement about him, and Slade was able to distinguish the separate forms moving around him.

“Light,” the woman spoke again, the word crisp and abrupt. It was a moment before there was a shuffle of movement of response. He could see the blurred form as someone came closer. A beam of brightness stabbed at his eye for a brief moment before moving away. Black spots were left behind, swimming in the fuzzy mess of color. He heard the conversation around him but didn’t bother trying to involve himself in it. “Pupil is unreactive to light.”

“You don’t have the proper authority to take control of this situation, Doctor. It seems you failed to remember that ARGUS removed you from this particular case. And furthermore-”

“ARGUS never gave you the authority to kill prisoners during an interrogation,” the woman interrupted sharply. “There is still some principle to how we act, isn’t there?”

“You work for the wrong organization to start arguing morality.” The words weren’t mocking or sharp but rather resigned, a grim reminder on top of anything else. “Our priority is to secure the prison, not to stand on principle.”

“And you think this is going to secure anything?” The quiet challenge seemed to end the argument. There wasn’t any aggression in it, and the other seemed to have no response. “I have signed assent from the Director to be involved, I respect the control you are trying to exercise over the prison, I have no desire to challenge your authority. However, I can personally vouch for this man and say there was no capable way he could have been involved. I’m not speaking on behalf of his morality, simply that it would have been impossible.”

“He’s shown dangerous levels of aggression more than once.”

“Episodes of aggression are a natural part of both the serum and the withdrawal. Every time I spoke to him, he showed no motivation to plan out an entire attack and escape. Do what you see is fit, Agent, but I ask you at least consider my advice.”

Silence. During the long moments, while his vision barely cleared, Slade was able to clarify his thoughts, managing to clear the foggy mess in his head. He didn’t move again, not wanting to give the guards any more of a reason to panic. He was fairly certain his wrist was broken; the bone snapping about the same time the restrain had finally given way. Despite what he had heard one of the guards say about his healing still being heightened, Slade was unsure just now long the bone would take to mend. The thoughts, in which he had little interest, and considered them more like idle curiosities, were what occupied him during the silence. He had little concern over what Hendrix’s reply might be. Even so, the man finally spoke up again.

“Return the prisoner to his isolated cell. Make sure there is no hidden weaponry.”

“Yes, sir.” The other restraints were unlocked, and Slade was pulled upright. He felt his hands tied behind his back. Dizziness flooded over him, and he lowered his head to his chest, trying to ground himself before he felt the commanding push from behind him. Barely able to see, he started in the direction he was facing.  Squinting did little to clarify the world that resembled a painting by an amateur impressionist. There was a sudden footstep next to him, he _sensed_ the guards behind him stiffen, and then, there was a hand around his elbow, guiding him off the course he had originally intended.

The walk felt familiar, yet at the same time, Slade didn’t particularly trust himself to be able to walk straight. They moved towards the cell he had first been placed in, he knew that, and away from the cell block. It wasn’t long until they were there, and Slade was able to guild himself into the cell. One of the guards stepped in, freeing his hands.

“His wrist.” The guard still at the words, and the woman stepped into the cell. Something was secured around his wrist, wrapping around part of his hand. Slade had worn a cast before, and it was a familiar shape. His vision was a little clearer, and while distances were still a struggle to see, he was able to look around at the two people around him. The guard watched him cautiously, and the woman didn’t make eye contact. It didn’t take her long to secure it, and after, both her and the guard retreated. The cell door closed and Slade slowly sat down on the cot, willing his legs to not give out until he was seated. He looked up, towards the bars, and saw the figure still standing there. Vaguely, he noticed his vision was improving.

“I was under the impression you were dead.” It was had to talk, as his body had forgotten how to. His voice was hoarse. He couldn’t see her face, or rather the specifics of her expression. But he felt like he didn’t need to. Her whole demeanor seemed different. She was dressed differently as well, military pants pushed into boots, and a white short-sleeved uniform shirt tucked underneath her belt. Dr. Nevera’s hands clasped in front of her.

“There was a riot, one doctor and three guards were killed,” she replied. “The other doctor and myself were removed from the premise for obvious reasons. ARGUS believes the prison might be too impossible to control.”

“And yet you’re back,” he didn’t sound welcoming, and Slade dropped his gaze down to his hands. At least those were close enough to see clearly. “I didn’t think ARGUS was foolish enough to send any non-field agent into whatever the fuck this is turning into.”

“I spoke to the Director, I prefer not to abandon my work.”

“Have you ever considered maybe it’s best to give up?” Slade bit back. He knew what she was saying, suggesting the idea that he was worth her coming, just to get him to some level where he was redeemable, better. “This isn’t a county jail, it’d take some sort of monster to end up here.”

“I don’t believe in monsters, Mr. Wilson. We’re all human, which means we can be so much worse than any demon. But we can also achieve the opposite.”


End file.
